Botol Kaca "Kompleks"

the so-called gift ( paragraphs of rants, of the frowning clown, of the drowning sun ) I often wonder, how odd it is, the so-called gift, we were born with. Us, as of those who are alive, who could do things that then breathe life to each and every step of our being, amongst the ability to see and watch, hear and listen, speak and talk, we are capable of creating interconnections between those capacity which were the generic settings for who we are, those connections create magic that gives us the ability to have desires, the wants for things that are within the capability of our minds, but not in reach of our hands, the tools which move reality, the rotor for the stale life, consists of abiotical matters. We move the grounds we walk on, nurture the soil we stomp on, paint the air we breathe on, touch each and every materials, dead and lifeless, into a complexity that intertwines, interacts, unfolds, uninterrupted, fall in a cross, of time, place and motion, roll and roll, the further ...

  " mother, release yourself " ( a passage to the tormented time, to the corroded love, scarred, left unspent in corners of mankind, of a woman in gravity and a child in vitality, of a mother and a son ) "The sound of ticking clock what calms me, nobody can give comfort to me" At first listen, that part of the song, strikes to me as a soft and lenient cotton string, flowing as waves through the air, wafts softly around ears of mine. But for the next of second and third, it weighs heavier, heavier and heavier. So much filled with weight that if I were to squeeze it now, it'd excrete droplets of life, of emotions and colors, breathe flowers to any part of the air it touches. The song played at a scene where a woman and a mother, of a child killed in the mischief of another, is opening boxes of what the child had left, rewinding time of memories, stood reticent in bereft. ...  a yellow-red backpack, an origami-made medal, decorated with a writing of his, "I lo...

"strands of my being, each as their own individuals" (  these are stories to the brokenly parted anatomy of existence ,  which then grew to their own scars and dreams  ) (I) I antagonize people, for that is the easiest way to read the air wafting around nuances, gestures, and response. In that way, the less of burden I have to get hit with, the less of darkness I have to plunge myself into, for I know, if I had accepted what I see as what I know and see, I do know, it will all come back to me, turning sharp to pierce me straight from the first to the last of layers, from air to another air, as ligtning strike the solemn air with the loudest of chaos, then leaving the most silent of response. It left. It left the air dead. (II) I feel like, places are just moments away, I've stored lots of places in memories of senses, sighst, sounds, textures, shapes and colors, all the gradation collide into an integrity of complexity, then the most of all, of smell. A slight of smell co...

"the truth to my marks" ( a last trial of attempt to whatever well-being is ) ...again, the lumps and molten rocks never fail their task to stood beneath the flesh and bones, holding hostage of my life forces, at night, when I'd unconsciously suffocate.  All this interpretation I do, of the screams I feel around my body, of the ghouls I see lingering around me, haunting. The act of it, drains all the desperate lights under my skin to the lowest of settings, putting me in battery saving mode.  But, surely, there's no denying that on the very last bit of it, it spares me, from the tormenting tornados, thunders, beggars, eruptions, earthquakes, red massacres and eroding sea waves.  The act of it, is the very last thing I could do, to salvage what's left from the rotten dreams and quirks, to avert eyes from the glaring abyss, to at least leave scars and remarks to the ground whilst I struggling for the tinies bit of sanity, to at least have the possibility for leavin...

"oh, we egotistical weaklings" ( a memoir of a body who's forgotten its death  ) I'll never stop my wonderings to why do I always ever so doggedly seeking out the shades of grey in my normally carved days, why do I feel truly reluctant to pop out of the soap bubble right in front of my eyes, right on my nose. I put my palm there, and all I need to do is just a slight pressure towards, but why can't I ever do it, I know it's anything but a guarantee to lost, it is a lifetime worth chance, though it is an absolute scare, it is the only answer to all my 'hows'. Then, lastly, why do I feel like I'm all coverd up in a sense of security, of warmth, of assurane, when if I were to raise my head and try to grasp what's around, water, water, water, water is all I could see in the four directions. Humans often ask 'why's', without a slight concern to ask 'how' I believe, that is one of the reflections towards the human ego. We are livi...

"mysterious thunder" (  how the body shuts off its own mind ) it's like everytime i feel a bulge,  a part of skin and flesh  bending, curving, spilling out,  from my clothing,  it sets an alarm, like the japanese earthquake sirene system it triggers an opening from the ceiling, dropping off dusty, moldy, dirty, wretched thoughts of me, of people, of my family, of the world, of my body all in all feels as if the sirene sounds and the voices are so solid and so brutal, it creates a crevice in between clouds and blue sky, the air cracks, the sky is falling down leaving a dark void, no stars, just utter darkness it all happens in a day, in an hour, in a minute, in seconds it could come like raging thunder in the middle of broad summer daylight my body shuts off its own mind leaving me dead for a few seconds just laying there, flies flew a few then a bell rang,  with the last consciousness I had, I got up, then shiver for the thought of my post-poned responsibil...

        " animalistic mind" ( change is too laborious, I'm not tough enough, I'm fearful )         I've been listening to lots of talks about the human mind and how it consists of a person (which is the thought) riding an animal (the animalistic desires such as eat, sleep, sex, etc.). When a person is stuck with a default setting and just go through the day with idling, or doing things that they're not meant or supposed to do, it's like losing control of the animal, the person riding it doesn't have much control of how the animal will act, thus leading to a person unable to pursue or unable to do tasks at hand, which then ends with lost. It's really just talking about the simple act correlating to basic human need, motivation and how do we fight the evolutionary features with a new one, in order to pursue what we aren't. Basically it's just about how we, each and every one of us, has this big worldview, our perception on reality, w...

warna kini busuk, lugu kini mayat    (  sisa gema sukma yang dulu berjalan nyaru  )   anak yang sangat lugu akan pandangannya terhadap dunia baginya, dunia adalah sebuah alam bermain yang tak pernah putus, selalu terhubung, dan selalu berputar Ah, begitu hidupnya udara menari bersama dengan warna, memantul dari dan ke mata, membentuk siluet yang memikat bagi siapapun yang melihatnya, untuk ikut terperangah dan merekah segala yang menyelimutiku adalah rentangan pusaran warna yang memancar dari segala potensi dan keriangan kata-kata tak berwujud yang mengambang di udara, kemudian mengembang ia begitu mencintai segala yang mengisi ruang dengan keberadaan dan kepribadian, yang tanpa perhatian terhadap mata tubuh-tubuh lain, maupun syair dan desis yang tidak relevan, menyatu menyaru, membentuk kekuatan yang lebih mistis dari sihir, lebih indah dari harmoni orkestra, dan lebih kuat dari perang kekuatan yang tidak pernah menghadirkan dirinya secara eksklusif, kekuatan ...

An Act of Circus within A Jar of Tides (  " I'm your problem child, your matter of fact" )  The singular only way I could comprehend the act of tearing one's own skin, is through allegories and metaphorical transversal visions of knives, tides and a heart as the boundary of tragedies Without days went missing on papers, it'd feel like a jar trapping the ocean directly beneath the light of moon, the tides are rising higher as more distance closing, crashing into the land of volcanic rocks The motion of tides breaking is like a raging, wild and strong-willed banging, begging to the sky and earth for a way to roam free about the waters of lakes But, the only passage to freely roaming is through the windows As I hear the thunder-like banging of tides, I close ears to the otherwordly dream lane, let them struck me with tunes and choirs of the grounded saints Melancholy as it is, spared me  another gesture to live on Agonizing as it is, dries my heart out from raging mo...

absensce , abandonment and the silent crimes (unbranded wounds of a once who I am) This dimensive lane is too loud I pin my nose to subtle choirs and pictures Your breath is like a passing railway Your gaze swim like an orchestral fluid When you scream, it sounds like hell came down through a crack on the time lane When you see through me to the walls, the smallest non-sounding objects turn to into the loudest banging Ears bleeding, Heart tearing All the false declarations are the biggest of lies All the non-conforming ideations are the cruelest of crimes You didn't put my shoes beneath of you, instead you put me into yours The ignored injustice, silent killers It is  a white senseless crime, the people's stupidly elusive hidden secret, exhibited as Picassos in communion parks All naked to naked Bluntly viewed as pleasure, a comforting matter to illicit acts. A senseless declaration, the holiest between the mothers of satan From it, sparks were born, as initials to the beginnin...